


What He'll Never Know

by tetsugoushi (gitalee)



Series: The Gifted and the Cursed [1]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: 100 Themes Challenge, AU: Vaguely A/B/O, Drabble Collection, M/M, Mpreg, Suicide Attempt, Toulon Era, Wordcount: 100
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-24
Updated: 2013-08-15
Packaged: 2017-12-21 02:54:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 4,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/894951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gitalee/pseuds/tetsugoushi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of drabbles self-filling a silly kinkmeme prompt and taking it way too seriously.</p><p>  <i>“Who are you?” he hears himself ask, though he doesn’t truly care.</i></p><p>  <i>“... Doesn’t matter,” the other man sighs, stroking Javert’s flanks with unprecedented gentleness. “Just a number to you.”</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Cursed World

**i. Broken (52)**

Over the past generations, something has changed in society, and no one knows why.  The “why” is not important.  Maybe it came from the Revolution, or maybe it simply happened concurrently, further sign that things in France are wrong.

A strange mutation occurs in perhaps two of every hundred.  One of these will be cursed with an uncontrollable need that explodes twice a year; the other, gifted with the power to sate this need, but with the likelihood of promoting the greatest gift, the most horrible curse, regardless of any factors that once were insurmountable: the creation of new life. 

(100 words)

 

\--

 

**ii. Wrecked (7)**

On one hand, the poor young bohème knows that her stars could have been worse.  Two times a year, cursed women suffer twice a month instead of once, and, if mated during their time, are certain to be left with child.  But she is still mostly within the realm of normal, unlike the like-gendered parents that mystify and disgust society.

On the other, when her husband realizes the child they conceived would be the first of many if they stayed together, he commits a crime to keep himself away; his gift to her, he says.  Hopelessly, she does the same.

(100 words)

 

\--

 

**iii. Disgust (70)**

Javert cannot pinpoint when he realizes he is unloved, but because he has always known it, it never has the chance to break his heart.  His mother looks over his head when she speaks to him, calls him “boy,” tells him it kills her everytime she sees how little he resembles his father. 

He does not think he looks like her either, from the few times he has caught his reflection, and he is glad.  Even as a child, he doesn’t want to be anything like a woman who would sink so low as to give birth in a prison.

(100 words)

 

\--

 

**iv. Pessimistic (39)**

Children born in jail do not achieve greatness.  Even if they get out -- absorbed into an orphanage, enlisted into the military -- most find themselves back within stone walls, now bearing brands of their own.

The prison staff have seen this time and again, but something about the boy Javert is different.  He is a sour child, but his eyes burn determinedly under the chaplains’ tutelage, and, unlike other ruffians’ brats, he follows rules like he’d written them himself.

At fourteen, he goes into heat, and his advocates sigh. As if things weren’t bad enough for the youth already.

(100 words)

 

\--

 

**v. Thankful (76)**

The head doctor of Toulon is like him, and that makes all the difference in Javert’s life.

Javert’s own parents never understood themselves; prison was the only way they knew to keep safe. But the doctor knows how to teach a confused adolescent how to handle the changes in his body and brain, the bitter herbal tinctures that will keep him stable and offer him a future.

“None of my children turned out like me -- like us,” he says one day.  “You’re like the son I might have known.”  And Javert has never been so proud to be cursed.

(100 words)

 

\--

To be continued.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt here http://makinghugospin.livejournal.com/13488.html?thread=9820592 on the kinkmeme, with some wonderful fills already started, but this idea kept nibbling at me after I originally made the request, and I found myself producing drabble after drabble every time I let my mind wander, so I figured I might as well share.
> 
> Credit for the list of themes goes to http://kathrineroid.wordpress.com/2011/09/25/100-themes-challenge-writing-prompts/ !


	2. Inside Toulon Prison

**vi. Pride (21)**

When he is fifteen, the warden offers him the chance to begin shadowing the guards, and, in time, become one himself.

This would never have happened without the doctor as his benefactor, and Javert decides to repay this generosity by being the most strict, fair, and feared guard in Toulon. No convict will ever suspect what he is.

His efforts show promise. "I hear you have impressed the senior staff," the doctor smiles.  "Congratulations, boy."

He feels his chest -- still scrawny, but starting to broaden -- puff up.  "You won't regret what you've done for me, sir," he replies.

(100 words)

 

\--

 

**vii. Neglect (65)**

It’s been twenty years since hormonal shifts lit up the nerves and tissues of a prisoner’s son, since he found himself crying and desperate for something he could not name.  His mother ignored him, muttering about his father, and he ignored her, hungry for the jailers’ attention.  When one finally carried him to the infirmary, he nuzzled the guard like a needy pup.

Since then, the tinctures have allowed him to live as an ordinary man.  But they are not cheap, and so he cuts back; the doctor is overly careful, and for twenty years he’s been fine, after all.

(100 words)

 

\--

 

**viii. Embarrassment (95)**

It starts with a headache -- a mild one at that.  Nothing unusual for someone who spends his days in the hot Toulon sun wearing a guard’s uniform.  Then he finds his eyes lingering on the shirtless convicts, transfixed by the sweat dripping down their backs.  More than once he shakes his head to clear his mind.  He blames the summer temperatures.

Only some hours later -- when he wakes up in his hammock with the beginnings of a craving in his belly that no food will satisfy -- will Javert realize this is a different kind of heat altogether.

(100 words)

 

\--

 

**ix. Dealing (97)**

The doctor is angry.  “Haven’t I always told you to take double doses?  Herbal potency cannot be trusted,” he says.  “The medicine is free in the infirmary.  You’re too proud, son; you should have told me you couldn’t afford it.”

Javert grimaces, both at the lecture and at the shooting aches in his body.  “I need to support myself if I’m ever going to live outside here,” he says, sulky words of a teenager out of the mouth of a grown man.

“Funny you should say that,” comes the reply, “because you’ll be locked up in here till it’s over.”

(100 words)

 

\--

 

**x. Holding (19)**

The darkened quarantine room is not comfortable; it is meant for convicts.  It is a bench covered in a blanket, a chamberpot, a heavy door and windows nearly as small as those of the Hole.  But it is the safest room in Toulon.

Javert’s famished gaze rakes over the doctor’s form, but the older man is like him, and can offer him no relief.  He knows he should let himself be locked away while he still has wits enough to realize it’s for the best.

“You’re going to be miserable,” the doctor is saying, “but you’ll be safe.  Go inside.”

(100 words)

 

\--

To be continued.


	3. What Cannot Wait

**xi. Lust (60)**

He scarcely remembers what it was like to be a child going through this experience; he used to tell himself that the subjectivity of youth exaggerated what memories he has.

He now knows he was wrong.

No matter how he adjusts himself, his pulse races from the top of his head and bottoms of his feet into his pelvic area; he is swollen and wet and throbbing.  He thinks of the men outside, sweltering in the sun, and whines when he thinks of how they are not sweltering over him.  Any of them.  All of them.  He is sweating too.

(100 words)

 

\--

 

**xii. Without (10)**

Usually, he would not have gone to the infirmary for a small accident, but the guard on duty today is new and overly cautious.  In principle, Jean Valjean does not mind the workload, but he must admit that a moment out of the sun is appreciated.

As he is led to the infirmary, though, the doctor rushes past him, his coat flapping behind him.  “An accident,” he says.  “Don’t-” but his voice blows away.

The jailer shrugs as the older man disappears.  “Just wait in there, then,” he says, so Valjean enters the infirmary alone, and his eyes immediately cross.

(100 words)

 

\--

 

**xiii. Shame (84)**

Javert hears the outside door creak.  Through his misery, he is aggravated.  The most respected and feared guard in Toulon shouldn’t need a sitter.  Every time the desire temporarily abates and his thoughts clear, he curses his parents for bringing him into the world.

Across the room, through the letter-sized window, he notices eyes peering at him.  He backs further into the darkest corner.  Yes, he thinks.  Come stare at this miserable creature, locked away like a beast.  Come.

Another wave of need churns through his body, and though he is conscious enough to regret it, he cannot help howling.

(100 words)

 

\--

 

**xiv. Sympathy (18)**

His sister Jeanne too had suffered when her heats came, but that was the one instance in which Jean dared not help her.

This man now is one of his jailers, and a part of him enjoys imagining his anguish, but the memories of his sister’s pain wring some drops of sympathy from the long-dried husk of a heart.

And still another part of Valjean, the bestial side that only knows its instincts, demands satisfaction. 

“Unlock the door,” 24601 growls outside the quarantine room, stroking himself in anticipation.  “I’ll make you feel better.”

It is the least he can do.

(100 words)

 

\--

 

**xv. Submission (36)**

The voice outside cuts through the drumbeat of Javert’s pulse, the haze of his need.  He was supposed to be alone in here.

The blanket chafes his bare skin, but he pulls it tighter around himself as he walks to the door.  He almost asks who’s there, but as he approaches, he catches the scent, and it doesn’t matter anymore.

“The key- it’s on your side, the desk,” he gasps.  A grunt of frustration, a rattle of objects, and then a ray of light as the door opens enough to admit a man’s form.

Javert drops the blanket and waits.

(100 words)

 

\--

To be continued.


	4. Groans from Within

**xvi. Infatuation (37)**

In prison he’s kept with his own kind; while there’s plenty of posturing for dominance, it rarely manifests carnally. Valjean has long known what he is, but for most of his life he’s kept close to family, and thus doesn’t recognize this urge.

The nude man before him is indistinct in the dusky light, and yet is absolutely beautiful. The convict has never desired before now.

Nor has he ever touched anyone like this, but it doesn’t matter. He puts his hands on the other’s shoulders and unites their mouths roughly. His body demands more, but he needs this first.

(100 words)

 

\--

**xvii. Overwhelmed (23)**

Javert bends backward with the kiss, if that’s what this act of aggression is. He can’t tell what the other man looks like, if he’s old or tall or even familiar, but he knows the tongue in his mouth is speaking promises that it will make everything better, and that’s enough for now.

Then there are strong hands on his shoulders, turning him around and shoving him forward. He stumbles; his hands meet the edge of the table in support. It takes a moment for his mind to register the implications of this position, but his trembling body knows already.

(100 words)

 

\--

**xviii. Power (72)**

Valjean had no idea that this is what it would be like.

His body is worn, his shoulder still in pain -- that’s right, that’s why he was at the infirmary; the gash is bleeding through his shirt, red on red -- but as he pushes into the guard’s needy form, he feels like he is floating.

Then he thrusts, and the guard groans and shivers in response, and for the first time in years, he has control over something. He has reached self-actualization. Until they both cry out and collapse in victorious defeat, their pleasure is at his command.

(100 words)

 

\--

**xix. Relief (90)**

He feels better. He hurts everywhere, but he feels better. The man -- the prisoner? -- is still breathing heavily against the back of his neck, his beard pulling at his skin like needles.

“Who are you?” he hears himself ask, though he doesn’t truly care.

“... Doesn’t matter,” the other man sighs, stroking Javert’s flanks with unprecedented gentleness. “Just a number to you.”

The guard lowers his head onto his forearms and does not acknowledge the truth in that statement. The prisoner takes another long breath, as though he can preserve this moment and Javert’s very essence in his lungs.

(100 words)

 

\--

**xx. Remorse (80)**

As the fire in his veins pulses back into blood, Jean Valjean inhales the sweat from the other man’s back. When he was young, when he discovered what he was and how the cursed could draw him with their need, he had vowed that he would never give in to such base, animal instinct.

Now, look what Toulon has made of him.

The boy Jean dreamed of falling in love, and then uniting in body and soul with his loved one. The boy Jean would have considered 24601 a monster.

He pulls himself out, and the man beneath him groans.

(100 words)

\--

To be continued.


	5. Some Small Relief

**xxi. Satisfied (75)**

"You look better than I'd expected," says the doctor after he returns, hair clumped with sweat and uniform soiled with dirt and dried viscera.

Under normal circumstances, Javert's blood might have run cold with shame or guilt, but the heat, however quenched, is still in his veins, still burning his senses. He smiles languidly at the older man, and stretches like a lion under a noon sun. "It's not so bad," he answers, running his hands through his hair just to feel his own touch.

The doctor starts, and gives him a long, searching look. "Was someone in here, son?"

(100 words)

 

\--

                  

**xxii. Fulfilled (83)**

Before he left, Valjean snuffled in the guard's dampened nape one last time, indulging in one last taste of ambrosial sweat, then staggered wordlessly out. His clothing scrapes his skin.

The jailer who had brought him is waiting at the corner.

"Done already? Better now?"

His usual response would be a sullen glare, but he has been temporarily transubstantiated by this unexpected moment of satisfaction. He nods.

"Good. Can't have you dying on us three months before parole," chuckles the man. "Wouldn't that just be a shame after twenty years?"

_Nineteen_ , he doesn't say, but the reminder shatters his euphoria.

(100 words)

 

\--

                  

**xxiii. Question (67)**

Caught in the daze that is clearly coital afterglow, Javert is quiet, and the doctor sighs. "For your sake..." he says, looking at the key left in the door and knowing he's not wrong. It is too late.

All he can do is vow to find the intruder's identity, as his protege is clearly in no state to know, and pray.

He discovers his answer weeks later when he attends to prisoner 24601's near-septic shoulder gash, which he’d supposedly treated. After much deliberation, he relays this information, but Javert pretends not to understand why he should care about a number.

(100 words)

 

\--

 

**xxiv. Triumph (5)**

These past months, Valjean has watched for him. It doesn’t mean anything; he never heard a name, barely saw a face, and Toulon crushed his sentimentality years ago.  Merely curiosity.

Then, his last day.  He does not recognize the figure, but when he hears him speak, memories whimper in his ears.

That number in that voice raises his ire: he is to be a free man, and demands his own name. He doesn’t listen to the self-righteous response.  He has no reason to care.

Remembering the name of some guard is far less important than recalling the taste of freedom.

(100 words)

 

\--

 

**xxv. Composed (55)**

Men on parole are easy to find, so long as they behave. Javert does not let this thought linger in his mind as he hands 24601 his papers, dismisses his name.  It does not matter.  After today, he will never see the man again -- not that he was easy to spot among the throng of mangy, unwashed beasts as it was.

He does not wish to remember this moment, this man. It doesn’t matter.  They are nothing to each other.  He will forget any of it ever happened.  He suspects he might be ill, but he will not request relief.

  
(100 words)

 

\--

To be continued.


	6. Signs of Life

**xxvi. Agitation (42)**

Javert feels faint again, but he will not go to the infirmary.  He has not spoken to the doctor since the older man offered him a sized up uniform and some deeply unwanted words of support and pity.

He must be wrong.  The man bore three children of his own, and so is certainly knowledgeable, but he has a partner, and very different circumstances.  And Javert has not vomited.  Had he been a cursed woman he knows he would be in trouble, but he is not, and it’s much rarer for men to stir.

But he has never been lucky.

(100 words)

 

\--

 

**xxvii.  Fury (34)**

Freedom is Hell.

The stares, the imprecations, the taunts -- everything is as bad as it was in Toulon, or perhaps worse, because at least then he told himself he was a prisoner, and deserved derision.  Valjean is a free man, but he is starving, and cold, as though those nineteen years had never happened.  At least in prison he received rations, work to keep him warm, and company.

He curses everyone who played any role in leaving him with this life.  It isn’t fair.  They all should pay for what they have done to him.  Every one of them.

(100 words)

 

\--

 

**xxviii. Stress (57)**

His belt will fasten, even if it fits far more tightly than it used to, below a belly that never existed before.  Even in early autumn, when he handed 24601 his ticket of leave, one of his fellow guards had asked if he’d been requesting double meals of late, but Javert ignored the taunt, figured that it was simply sour grapes that his physique is the stronger one by far.

He looks at the sized up uniform.  For his own sake, he thinks, he should probably visit the infirmary.  But he cannot.  That would mean admitting he has a problem.

(100 words)

 

\--

 

**xxix. Worship (26)**

After the bishop buys his soul for God, Valjean sometimes thinks of the guard in the quarantine room.  He wonders if he can ever be pure after what happened with that young man, but he supposes if God in Heaven can forgive robbing old men and children, he can forgive a moment of being overwhelmed by his instinctive urges; like everything else, his nature came from above.

He includes the jailer in his prayers, though, and feels guilty to have forgotten his name.  He prays for his forgiveness, for his health and safety, and for his prosperous and unburdened future.

(100 words)

 

\--

 

**xxx. Knife (22)**

He still has not called upon the infirmary, though pointed invitations have been made with increasing vehemence.  “Javert, if not for yourself, then for-”

No.  No, no, no.  He will not hear it.

And yet he feels it, feels flutters that he wanted -- needed -- to believe were nerves, or perhaps poor digestion accompanying his weight gain.  But he can no longer deny the frequency and sensation of horrible tiny limbs battering his insides.

Now he looks upon the blade he holds, and wonders whether the throat or the belly would be more efficient to end this ruined life.

(100 words)

 

\--

To be continued.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For what it's worth, the, ah, more technical and medical details and developments are going to be glossed over as chapters continue; never fear. ;P


	7. The Fool's Way

**xxxi. Pity (73)**

Enough is enough.  As the prison doctor, he knows it is his responsibility to care for all of the individuals within its walls, whether they are there by force or by choice, and whether they wish to be cared for or not.  

He cannot begin to understand the turmoil the young guard must be experiencing -- he struggled too carrying his firstborn, but he had the warm arms of a caring lover and eager father-to-be to hold him tight when he became overwhelmed.  

He understands why Javert cannot accept this, but knows the future inside him will not be denied.

(100 words)

 

\--

**xxxii.  Coping (60)**

In the storeroom of the most deserted wing of the prison, Javert presses the blade against his throat and does not flinch when the skin breaks.  He is numb.  He should have known his life would come to nothing.  He was a fool to have believed otherwise.

A soft, alien flicker inside his midsection reminds him that this must be done, and if he’d been a braver man and done this sooner, it would have merely been suicide, not murder.  

He places a hand above his belt and addresses the thing for the first time:

“It is better this way.”

(100 words)

 

\--

**xxxiii. Tears (93)**

When the boy does not show up at his post or at the infirmary, common sense dictates he has sequestered himself somewhere, and there are few places to hide.  The doctor is not surprised to find broad shoulders, bedecked in blue, hunching over a table in the storeroom.

“What do you think you are doing?”

A shiver visibly runs down Javert’s spine, but he looks over his shoulder with no emotion, and his eyes are dry.  A blade sits at his throat, weeping red where steel meets flesh.

“I am taking care of myself.  As I was told I must.”

(100 words)

 

\--

**xxxiv.  Grasping (41)**

“You are a survivor, Javert.”  The doctor sees the set of the man’s shoulders and knows he is serious.  The guard’s reflexes far outstrip his own; words are his only hope.  “This is not the only way.”

A bitter smile crosses the other’s face, and he turns his knees to face the older man, the point of the blade against his Adam’s apple.  “It is.  I cannot- will not bring another-”

The doctor’s voice is firm.  “I will not let my son die in Toulon.” He exhales shudderingly and takes a tremendous risk. “Nor his child.”

The knife wavers, near-imperceptibly.

(100 words)

 

\--

 

**xxxv.  Acceptance (17)**

There is no alternative.  The man he considers a father is wrong: Javert does not and will not have a child, ever.  What he has is a physical curse, a weak resolve, an idiot’s pride, and the responsibility to rectify these shortcomings as best he can.  That means the knife.

Or, he thinks, pushing the point fractionally deeper, it could have meant the cliffs.  That would have been wiser.  Driving the blade home is harder than expected.  His breath hitches.

Both can tell he has lost his focus. He waits for his savior to pounce, and knows himself a fool.

(100 words)

 

\--

To be continued.


	8. Father and Mother

**xxxvi. Colorful (59)**

In spring, the trees and plants of Toulon burst into bloom, bringing yellows, oranges, purples and greens to the dead reds, blues, grays and browns.  

Javert stops eating.

His reason, however, is different from when he picked up the knife: belly and mind heavy, the thought of ingesting anything simply inspires nausea.  He is assured this merely -- merely! -- indicates his time is close.

The higher-ups provide meaningless condolences, and allow him to hide away in quarantine.  When the pains begin, he thinks of 24601, wonders about the man under the convict’s beard, and hates himself and the world.

(100 words)

 

\--

**xxxvii.  Birth (1)**

Though he will never know it, Jean Valjean first arrives in Montreuil-sur-Mer the night a son is born to the guardsman whose name he has forgotten (outside of dreams).  While the jailer he so briefly knew sheds the first tears of pain in his adult life, the former convict looks at the impoverished town and wonders if he can do anything to share the Lord’s grace with those who suffer.

A small boy-child who would not exist without him emits his first wails, but Valjean will be ever unaware.  He sleeps early, mind whirling with possibilities, and dreams of rosaries.

(100 words)

 

\--

**xxxviii.  You (12)**

Exhausted, Javert regards it as best he can and supposes that it is human enough for a creature of the damned, if as hideous as any newborn.  It is red and squashed, with tiny fingernails that scratch its cheeks, tiny ears that twitch at the slightest noise, tiny eyebrows that furrow like his own when he is lost in thought.

“As if you have anything to think about,” he reprimands.  It ignores him.

He wishes to stare it down, stare it into nonbeing, but it fusses when he pushes it too far away from himself.  Such an entitled little thing.  

(100 words)

 

\--

**xxxix. Optimistic (95)**

He is lying on a pallet of straw holding the infant when the doctor comes in.

“How are you?”  His voice is soft, as though Javert might be skittish.  Ridiculous.  He should know him better than that.

“Will he be like me?” is his only reply.  The first question is too obvious to merit response.

The doctor sighs, kneels, strokes the sleeping newborn’s cheek.  “Perhaps. Or he may be like--”

“I should drown him now.  It would be the responsible thing,” Javert interrupts, lips against the child’s dark, whorled hair.  But the doctor sees his eyes and knows he won’t.

(100 words)

 

\--

 

**xl. Feelings (88)**

Starlight filters through the infirmary window, soft and pristine.  The room is secluded, too far from the general population for noise to travel. It might have been a moment of peace.

The woman who brought him into this world one cloudy morning believed that those born on a starry night had a bright future ahead.

The newborn wheezes weakly against his chest, gazing at him with a prisoner’s eyes.

He may lack her faith, but now, looking down in his arms at this starlit son of a convict, born in a prison, Javert has never felt closer to his mother.

(100 words)

 

\--

To be continued.


	9. Epilogue: Finding a Heart

**xli. Hard (49)**

“You must give him a name,” says the doctor sternly, holding a finger out for the infant to latch onto.

“I get by without one.”

“You have told me on countless occasions that you will be nothing like your parents, yet you would emulate them in this?”

Adjusting his collar, Javert sighs.  “The wet-nurse sees him far more than I.  Let her call him something.”  It is barely even his, he thinks, watching it gnaw upon the man who saved its life.

“She already does,” the doctor admits.

Javert’s hands still.  “And that is?”

“...Jeannot.”

The reply is immediate.  “No.”

(100 words)

 

\--

 

**xlii. Content (87)**

There is something to be said for having someone in his life, even this stranger’s child, with its dark, brooding eyes and dimpled grin.  He no longer lingers after shifts.

Very few of his colleagues are aware of the truth of his disappearance this winter, with his loss of bulk a sign of proof for the official story of severe illness.  Still, it has been long enough now that some jeer when he refuses invitations to socialize in town.

“You’d think you died back then,” he hears, and wonders if that’s true, especially when Jean-Mathieu casts that smile at him.

(100 words)

 

\--

 

**xliii. Inspiration (11)**

Jean-Mathieu Javert is named, not for the men who created him, but for the ones who allowed him to be: Jean and Mathieu Chabouillet, the warden and the doctor, married in all eyes but the law’s, and Javert’s.  One saved his life, the other his career; more, honoring them saves him a difficult decision.  The gesture seems to please, though perhaps they are simply glad for the child’s sake.

The name grows on him, though at first he finds it awkward and dimly irritating.  He does not begrudge it its Christian name.  Jean-Mathieu will have many things he never did.

(100 words)

 

\--

**xliv. Affection (14)**

Like many infants, even the fatherless Javert himself, Jean-Mathieu’s first word is “papa.”

The dour expression on his wet-nurse’s face when she informs the child’s guardian betrays her feelings upon being called so.  She seems to think it his fault.

“Better you than me,” Javert mutters, taking the child into his arms.  Jean-Mathieu pats the man’s whiskered cheek and laughs; his nurse accepts her weekly payment.

“It doesn’t bother you?” asks Dr. Chabouillet sometime later.

“I am not his father.”

“I never let my children call me _maman_ ,” retorts his mentor, and Javert snorts.

“I am not his mother, either.”

(100 words)

 

\--

**xlv.  Serenity (58)**

Before he becomes the mayor, the kindly man with the gentle smile and slight limp is called Father Madeleine, and the children of Montreuil-sur-Mer treat him as such.  He makes them dolls of straw and twine; they make him remember how to laugh.

The townspeople consider it a sin that there is no Mother Madeleine, that he has no children of his own to make the title true. Maidens, widows, and spinsters come calling, but he turns them away as easily as sending a child to bed.

Valjean knows there is no place for such a person in his heart.

(100 words)

  
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End Part 1: _What He'll Never Know_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fluff, I know; that's why I'm considering the last chapter the true ending, and this an epilogue.  
> The sequel will be coming soon, after I finish some other projects. Thank you so much for taking a chance on reading this fic.


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